


All Tied Up

by bactaqueen



Series: Candace [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, food in bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:48:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve doesn't always plan as far ahead as he'd like for you to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Tied Up

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.

It's not a surprise when your phone goes off after work on Friday. Steve is adorably predictable like that. It has only been a few weeks since...  _since_. Thinking about it makes you blush. ( _You let him tie you up and blindfold you._  Even if you wanted to tell your girlfriends, they wouldn't believe you. Not  _you_.) This call probably would have come sooner, but he had to go. Alaska or something; the one time he called, he talked about snow and sunshine. There was barely anything on the news. 

You're distracting yourself from the way your body goes all hot before you even answer the call.

"Hello."

"Come over," he says immediately, a request disguised as a demand. The smile in his voice is so bright it's nearly blinding and this is over the phone.

That makes sense.

You laugh a little. "What if I have plans?"

"I can guarantee they're not better than what's going to happen when you come over."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself."

"Did I ever tell you about the time I punched Hitler in the face?"

Now you're really laughing and getting strange looks from passers-by, quite a feat in Brooklyn. "All right," you say. " _All right._  I'm on my way."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm with my other boyfriend."

He chuckles and it's a deep, happy sound. "Please tell me his name's not Tony."

"Well, not this week."

He laughs again. "Are you at least in Brooklyn?"

"I'll get a cab and be there in twenty minutes," you tell him, and you can't hide the warmth in your voice or the excitement you feel.

"Good. I'll be waiting. See you soon."

***

You ring the bell, but he doesn't open the door. You ring again, and knock, fear welling up inside you. Something has happened, hasn't it? He would have called if he had to leave, wouldn't he?

Then his muffled voice calls, "It's open!"

Open? In this neighborhood?  _Odd..._  You step into the entryway, carefully shutting--and locking, you've got sense he clearly doesn't have--the door behind you. He's not in the living room and you don't hear anything from the kitchen. When you check the narrow stairwell in the corner of the main room, it's dark; he's not in the gym.

"Hello?"

"Bedroom!"

You follow the sound of his voice, down the short hall, past the small office that holds his drafting table and art supplies. You push open the bedroom door and you're not even sure what you expected but... not this.

"Steve."

He smiles. He doesn't even have the grace to smile like himself--that's his "aw, shucks" Captain America smile. "I thought it was only fair," he says graciously.

You're not really sure where to look first. The pink cuffs, for example, are quite arresting, and thinking about him in Babeland to shop for them gives you a little thrill. You kind of wish he'd invited you to the sex shop, too. Then there's the acres of skin exposed since he's only wearing white Y-fronts--and the briefs themselves, so endearingly simple and still doing almost nothing to hide his growing erection.

All right, you're definitely blushing because you definitely can't stop looking. "Oh."

He just flashes that Captain America smile again and says, "Isn't this where we were headed, anyway?" He waves his hands, bringing attention once again to the cuffs, and goes on, "Sorry I can't help, I'm a little tied up--but you should go ahead and get undressed and climb up here. I'm getting cold."

You give a breathless, helpless laugh. "I know how you feel about the cold." It might be just a little embarrassing stripping down--he's got all the lights on, and really, isn't that overkill for someone who grew up during the Depression? But the way he's looking at you just makes you feel hot all over, and the way he licks his lips when you finally step out of your panties makes parts low inside you clench.

"Come on," he says, his voice rough.

You climb up on the bed and slide a leg over him so you're straddling him. He's big and warm and you could spend all night just exploring, but he tips his face up in invitation and his lips are already pink and wet. You frame his face with your hands and kiss him.

He sighs into the kiss. His whole body relaxes beneath yours like this is what he's been waiting for. The kisses are long, languid and hotter each time. You could get lost in them, forget time, forget everything; you melt a little and stretch out on top of him. His stiff cock is trapped between your bodies, and you're aware of the muscles flexing in his arms as he shifts his hands to hold on to the slatted headboard.

You nuzzle his cheek. "I could do this all night," you whisper dreamily, and kiss him again.

He smiles against your mouth. "I wouldn't mind that." He nips your lower lip.

You pull back to look down at him. You blink. "You're serious."

He lifts his head to kiss your cheek. "Well, I'd like to do more. But I'm the one cuffed and you're in control. If all you want is to kiss me..."

The way he smiles at you makes your heart swell. But the heat in his eyes gives you other ideas. Better ideas that have less to do with your affection for this man and more to do with your lust for him. You study his face, let your eyes roam up the long lines of his arms, and then you smile. You're in control? There's something you've always wanted to try.

You slide off of him and off the bed.

"Hey! Where are you going?"

You glance over your shoulder at him, and when you realize he's looking at your ass you blush. But he's still hard. Still flushed. He sure looks nice like that.

"I'll be right back," you tell him.

He frowns. "You're not bringing a camera, are you?"

Well,  _there's_  an idea. You just smile at him and disappear through the door.

You find exactly what you're looking for in the refrigerator and work quickly, slicing the fruit, whipping the cream (he doesn't have the canned kind--that shouldn't be endearing, but it really is), and finding the stash of Hershey's chocolate in the back of the pantry. Plate balanced on one hand and bowl in the other, you make your way back to the bedroom.

He knows the instant he sees you. His eyes go wide and his cheeks are bright as tomatoes and he says, "Now, wait a minute."

You blink at him, mustering up all the innocence you can manage. "I haven't had dinner yet. I thought I'd start with dessert."

He looks a little wary, but his eyes are hot. He bites his lip. "I don't know... What if we make a mess?"

You cock an eyebrow at him. "You didn't wash the sheets after last time?"

He blushes deeply. "I have a service," he says.

That's absurd. It's so absurd you can't help the bark of laughter. "You don't mind if they see lube, but you don't want them to see chocolate sauce and whipped cream?"

"I--" He looks a little helpless.

You press your lips into a thin line and get control of yourself. Breathing out, you offer, "If it makes you feel better, I'll wash the sheets myself."

He sags a little. "You don't have to do that." He watches you as you come closer. "I just have a reputation to think of, you know."

"Oh, yes, a reputation totally intact after your trip into-- Babeland, wasn't it? That's the only sex shop in Brooklyn. Unless you've got a girl." You wink. You've got a girlfriend who throws Passion Parties every quarter.

He blushes. "I don't think anyone recognized me."

You chuckle and set everything on the nightstand. "I'm sure you hope not."

Then you don't have much to say, and neither does he. His eyes are on you and his hands flex around the slats. You start with whipped cream on his nipples and the cold makes him suck in a quick breath. Your hands shake a little as you lay out the fruit--sliced strawberries and bananas--arranged on his chest, on his belly, like you're arranging desert on a platter for a dinner party. You scatter broken pieces of chocolate over his skin, too, and he runs so hot that it begins to melt, just like the whipped cream. When he's dressed prettier than a parfait, you straddle his thighs, and, completely ignoring his cock hard in his briefs, you start at his hips.

Using just your lips, your tongue, and your teeth, you eat it all. A strawberry slice from his hip. Chocolate lapped from just to the left of his belly button. Banana eaten from the edge of his ribs. On and on, from his hips to his neck, stopping to lick his nipples clean of chocolate and whipped cream. You pepper his skin with sucking kisses, with light scrapes of your teeth. He tries not to squirm--you can feel it in the vibrating tension of his muscles, see it in the way his hands open and close around the slats of the headboard. He tosses his head back, exposing the long line of his throat; you take it for an invitation and settle over him, drawing nonsense patterns on his sides with your fingertips, and you lick and suck and bite at his neck.

You're full and not even close to satisfied. The sweetness on your tongue is barely tempered by the salt of his skin and you can feel his cock, hard and hot inside his briefs, against your cunt. You push fingers into his hair and anchor him while you kiss him, while you lick into his mouth, and as you do, you roll your hips.

He moans into your mouth.

You work your way back down. You didn't miss anything, not sweet fruit or fresh cream or dark chocolate, but you make your way down like you might have, sucking at the hollow of his throat, biting at his nipples, licking along the lines of definition in his abs, sucking just under his belly button. You hook your fingers into the waist of his briefs and wriggle back, bringing them down, freeing his cock.

His cock is so hard the head is nearly purple.

You settle over his legs, his knees pressed together, and you cup your hands around his cock. You just look at first, because he can't stop you, and you take your time. You brush thumbs over his sac, drawn tight up beneath the root of his cock, and then you stroke fingers lightly from tip to base. He shudders.

"Please..."

He doesn't have to ask twice.

You lick all over, from top to bottom and lower, lick all over for the salt of him, for the heat of him, just to feel him twitch and try desperately not to thrust his hips forward. You press your hands to his hips to hold him down--ineffective, you know; you can't hold him, not if he really wants to move--and you close your mouth over the head of his cock and you tongue the leaking slit.

He gives a long, deep groan of relief.

Eyes closed, you swirl your tongue over the head. He fills up your mouth, nudged comfortably against your palate, your tongue now pressed just under. You shift and bob and suck on each upstroke, lick lick lick each time you move down. You can't take him all in; the angle's wrong and you're not that talented. So you shift again, bring one hand to wrap around his shaft, and what you can't suck, you stroke.

He strains, pulling against the cuffs. He says your name.

You hum questioningly around his cock.

He shifts his hips, pulling out of your mouth, and you realize he's panting. "I need-- Turn around."

You lift, frown at him, search his face for meaning. He's blushing something fierce, but it's not until he licks his lips that you realize what he wants.

"Oh."

He meets your eyes. "Please?"

And there's something powerful about having him ask, having him make the word a question, when he's hot and flushed and so hard it has to hurt, when there's sweat darkening his hair at his temples, when he's tied up and laid out and all for you.

So you shift around and you arch your back and the first time he licks between your labia, you bite his hipbone to keep from crying out. Yeah, it feels  _that_  good.

He groans into you.

While he licks--licks and sucks and groans, the sound vibrating against you--you work him with hands and mouth, with fingers and lips and tongue and, once--in a fit of bravery--the barest touch of teeth. He shook all over and pulled away from your cunt to take the Lord's name in vain. On it goes until you're wound too tight, until you're done waiting.

You slide off of him to his protest. Your knees wobble; you were so close, and if you'd backed off his cock and ground down just a little on his chin, you'd have gotten there.

This is better.

You pull things out of your purse on the floor, bent over and all to aware that he's looking, until you find the little zipper pouch with the travel size bottle of lube. You break the seal and pump some into your hand. Too much, but your hands are shaking, you can't be blamed.

His eyes are bright and glassy and locked to you as you climb back onto the bed. You drop the bottle beside his hip and wrap your hand around his cock.

His body bows, head back, and he hisses.

He's moaning when you shift and sink down all the way.

You have just a moment of joy--so intense you're on the verge of tears.  _It still doesn't hurt._  Oh, he stretches you, but it doesn't burn, it doesn't hurt, he just fills you up. And the pressure inside is deep and full and perfect and you rock a little, experimental. That tears another deep groan from him.

He pulls at the restraints and meets your eyes. "Off," he says. "Let me help."

You bite your lip and sink again, shift your hips until the length of him is rubbing against the front of you from the inside, and it's perfect. He blinks, his eyes rolling just a little, and when he looks at you again, you shake your head.

You open your hand and show him.

He laughs, a huffed breath that tightens the muscles of his abs, that pushes him deeper and twitches him inside you, and he says, "Did you plan this?"

You slip the little massager sleeve over your finger and blush. "You said it was your turn next," you remind him, and touch the textured tip to yourself. The vibrations start up and apparently he can feel them, too, because he groans.

Whatever he might have said is gone now.

He bucks a little, as if he can't help himself, but mostly he just keeps his hot eyes on you as you bring yourself off, as you ride him and use the little vibrator on your clit, as the pressure from inside and the friction from without pushes you up, higher and higher, until you're grinding down hard on him and coming, until you can feel yourself clenching tight around his cock inside you, until you're feeling spent and weak.

You drop the massager and slump over him.

He turns his head, his lips finding your ear, and he breathes a plea as he rolls his hips.

It's easy like this. The angle's good and you can brace yourself over him. Your breasts brush his chest as your hips rise and fall, as you fuck him--as he fucks you. You watch his face. His eyes close, the lines at the corners appearing. He looks like he's in pain. His skin flushes and he bites his lip until you kiss him. He starts shaking before the end, before his hips snap and he buries himself deep, before he comes hard inside you.

All at once, he sags back into the pillows. He looks a little drunk, a little stupid. A smile curves his lips and his breathing is harsh.

It's the smile that gets you. You laugh at him, and the laughing reminds you that he's still half-hard, still inside you. Together, you both moan softly.

He lifts his face to kiss your cheek. "Let me go," he murmurs.

You reach up with one hand and rip open the Velcro, freeing his wrists. You see the angry red marks there--worse than the ones on you the last time, from his ties--before he wraps his arms around you. He turns his face and kisses you, slow and sweet at first.

"That was fun," you say, voice low, when he breaks the kiss.

He makes a face. "For you. Now I'm all sticky and we need to change the sheets before we go to sleep."

You laugh at him again because you can't help it. "You're a great plate, Steve. Better than my grandma's silver platter." You smile fondly at him. "But if it's that bad, you can have the shower and I'll change the sheets."

He looks like he's thinking about it for a moment. Then the flips you both, until you're on your back under him, and he takes both of your wrists in one of his hands. He slides the other hand down the length of your side to hook around your knee, and he brings your leg up. While his eyes are on yours, he slides into you, hard again, ready, and there's no pain, just the surprise of pleasure.

You gasp and arch.

He kisses your mouth, and then your neck, and he says, "Later," as he moves.


End file.
